


Interlude to the Elegy

by SanctifiedBlacklist



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:00:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1966434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanctifiedBlacklist/pseuds/SanctifiedBlacklist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With no one to interrupt or spare a suspicious glance, it's easy to give up against fighting the weather and just do what everyone does when it's cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude to the Elegy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WendigoDreaming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendigoDreaming/gifts).



> Awful fluff. Yeah, I know what the title says, sue me for feeling bad that the fluff inevitably ends in bloodshed. Oh, no, not in this fic, just in the show in general.  
> Anyhow, enough crying over couples. We'll be back to our regularly schedule programming of girl!Will Graham adventuring through Hannibaland soon. Until the process of writing and editing the next chapters of PBL is finished, I've written up a bit of an Intermission. You can blame WendigoDreaming for the Christmas in July. Or you can blame me for getting the song stuck in my head. Either way, enjoy A Very Hannigram Rendition of "Baby it's Cold Outside."

“I really can’t stay,” Will stutters, something akin to regret coloring his voice as he carefully sets his fine glass tumbler down on the mantel piece.  It has long since been empty of the eggnog-brandy mix it originally held.  He forgets the warmth of the fireplace when he steps backwards, the chill of the rest of the room reaching him.  Will had spent several years away from Louisiana at this point, but he’ll never forget humid Christmases, broadcast by Technicolor lights outside the windows of the trailer he shared with his father.  He grew up so far from a white Christmas that it still startles him, discomfort settled in his very bones at the thought of returning to the freezing night air.

“I do hope this spell of bad weather does not persist through Christmas,” Hannibal comments easily.  Will shudders before he can help himself, glancing at the threshold.  Things already seem less bright, having pulled away from the sphere of light the fire casts, drifting further into the shaded parts of Hannibal’s home.  He has a sudden vision of stepping out the front door and being cast into a certifiable film noir nightmare: all cold white breezing through an endless black landscape.  It had already been dark when Will initially arrived, crossed over Hannibal’s front stoop in order to have a short visit, sharing drinks by the fire.  Their fairly unconventional relationship has been deepening for weeks, months really, and Will can’t say he is entirely uncomfortable at having spent this one Christmas Eve with company he doesn’t entirely despise.

What makes him uncomfortable is the uncertainty that hangs around them now, perhaps brought on by the sudden flurry of snow.  Will can’t voice what his body knows in it’s shifting, fidgety distress; he doesn’t want to go home, not in this storm straight from his worst nightmares of northern winter.

“I’ve got to go,” Will says, more to force himself to move towards his coat, then to speak to Hannibal.  If he lets himself be drawn into more conversation, it will just be harder to leave.  It gets harder to leave every time, when they’re alone like this, and especially now, here, inside Hannibal’s house.  He reaches his jacket, draped over the back of his chair, at the exact moment Hannibal does, his therapist’s hand closing over his with firmness.  Will isn’t one for being trapped, gulps under the sudden pressure, but he feels his own leverage and understands he can pull away if he really wants to.  The trouble is, Hannibal is so much warmer than him.  He doesn’t want to pull away, not even a little bit.

“It’s getting rather late,” Hannibal says.  He sounds troubled by something.  Conern?  Will thinks it must be, feels it in the tension of the man’s calloused fingers.  It takes Will a moment to register anything beyond those fingers, the imprints of surgeon’s tools and cook utensils crafted into the fine wear of his warm skin.  When he does, he realizes he’s being abrupt and rude.

“It’s been really nice in here.  This evening, it’s been… it’s been fun,” Will struggles through his gratitude, attempting to rectify his momentary blunder.  His fingers curling around the fabric of his jacket, unwilling to pull free from the steady grip Hannibal has on him.  He doesn’t know how to do this—be so at ease and at the same time so fretful.  Hannibal’s hand doesn’t move and Will is so torn over what he wants.  He looks up, still frozen, smiling in that crooked, confused way that he’s been prone to.  Hannibal smiles back, but it seems polite, not reaching his eyes.  Will doesn’t want to think about what it could mean if Hannibal is equally unwilling to let Will walk out the door.

“I had been hoping you would elect to drop by,” Hannibal informs him and Will swallows again, a bead of sweat forming at his hairline despite how cold he feels inside.  Will almost moves, but then Hannibal’s uncanny ability to read the thoughts running through the front of Will’s mind distracts him from pulling away.  “Your hand feels like ice, Will.  Are you alright?”

“Just chilly,” Will responds, his tone a little clipped.  He finally tugs away from Hannibal and shrugs one arm into a coat sleeve.  It does little to help his chill, feels more heavy than warm as he slips into it, but it reminds him of his purpose.

_I want to stay.  Leave before I need to stay._

“Perhaps another drink?  I can heat it, hopefully rid you of your chill,” Hannibal suggests.  It’d be easier if it wasn’t so damn tempting.  Will feels his jaw work slightly, weighing the harm one final drink before he nods, his smile slipping away, into an expression easily read as worry.

“Half a drink,” he compromises, following Hannibal as the older man strides towards his kitchen, positive he can make it through this Godawful storm if he has another pick-me-up.  Just a small one though, before he loses his nerve entirely and asks to stay where he knows he shouldn’t.  Hannibal is quick about making his drink once he reaches the kitchen, finding ingredients in places Will would certainly have to memorize with a kitchen this large.  He pours considerably less than last time, as per Will’s request, and honest to God heats the concoction in a pot on the stove before ladling it smoothly into Will’s glass.  Hannibal offers Will the drink with a pleased smile, which Will returns—albeit awkwardly—their fingers brushing as he reaches to take the tumbler.

His first swallow is absolute fire and he splutters a little before laughing, feeling his face heat.  “What’s in that?” he chuckles.  It seems to have swarmed down into his stomach, creating a trail of steady warmth through Will’s body.  Hannibal’s smile seems genuine this time, his frame loosening with amusement.  Despite himself, Will feels his stomach roll at the sight of it: proper, pristine Hannibal Lecter laughing with affection at Will’s surprise, like they really are friends.

“It is a family recipe.  My mother used to make it, this time of year,” Hannibal comments, as both of their shoulders stop shaking.  Will pauses, files away that information instantly, like reflex.  He has never heard Hannibal mention his family, never seen so much as a picture.  The way he brings it up now, like it’s nothing, reminds Will of family and familiarity.  He thinks of his father.  He was always worrying he might not be able to give Will something he liked for Christmas.  The memory, like most of Will’s memories, is melancholy.  It doesn’t seem proper to comment, so he doesn’t attempt to.  Instead, he finishes his drink, more prepared for the heat this time, and zips up his coat, looking toward the door.

“I shall see you out then?” Hannibal inquires and Will nods, bracing himself.  However, when both of them reach the front door, it has become obvious—to Will at least—that it won’t be as simple as seeing him out.  Hannibal, ever the polite host, opens the door for Will and inadvertently welcomes the raging flurry into his home.  Will actually stumbles back a step at the sudden burst of ice and wind, yelping before he can think to shut his mouth.  The door shuts again in a hurry and both men are left looking comical.  Well, Will looks comical.  Hannibal looks startled, which is comical for him. Hannibal is pressing his hand against the door frame as though to brace his house and Will is still rocking from the windy assault he suffered, both of them rooted in these positions long after the door has closed.

“J-Jesus,” Will stutters finally, taking off his glasses to wipe away the quickly melting snowflakes.

“It is bad out,” Hannibal says, but Will doesn’t hear it, too busy trying to clean off his glasses.  What he does hear is, “Will, I couldn’t possibly let you go home in this.”

“Dr. Lecter,” Will begins to protest.  He slips his glasses back on and is suddenly struck silent under Hannibal’s heavy gaze.

“You injure my pride, Will. It is my job to look after your well being.  What am I to do if you catch pneumonia?” Hannibal demands, assuredly setting his shoulders.  Will knows that look, trembles under his knowledge.  He’s seen Hannibal determined and he knows by now the man always gets what he wants.

“I have to try,” Will says, gritting his teeth and starting forward again.  He at least has to put up a fight, say that he tried.  Hannibal holds up a hand, places it on his chest to stop him, but it lands directly over Will’s heart and his breathe catches.

“You have tried.  The wind almost took you off your feet,” Hannibal says simply, and he steps easily behind Will, begins to pull off his coat.  Struck by the absurdity of the gesture, Will laughs, resigned.  He has never been able to fight off Hannibal entirely, so he’s unsure why he ever thought he’d stand a chance when he’s already fighting his instinct to keep away from what he knows must be hell freezing over outside.

“But Dr. Lecter,” he quips, his voice letting himself slip momentarily back into his southern accent “What of the neighbors?”

He feels Hannibal’s laughter more than he hears it, the vibration of it traveling through the coat, playing against’ Will’s skin as Hannibal drags it away and exposes him to the chill again. Will isn’t so certain his shiver is caused by the air.

“I doubt they’ll say much.”  And what the hell is Will supposed to do with that other than feel his wind stung cheeks _maybe_ getting pinker.  “Come Will,” Hannibal murmurs, and Will holds another shiver, feeling it tense in the base of his spine.  “Come get warm.”  The promise of heat entices Will so much more.  He obediently follows Hannibal back to the—living room?  Smoking room?  He doesn’t know, there are so many rooms—defeated, trying to look anywhere but the easy stride of the doctor.

He says nothing when Hannibal’s hand rests on his shoulder, steers him closer to the fire than where he initially stopped.  He still says nothing when that hand doesn’t move, instead reveling in the steady, solid weight of it.

Will knows he should be more upset about this: he should be more determined to leave, but something in a dark corner of his mind wriggles with displeasure at the idea.  The part of him ( _right brain activity_ ) that exists as more emotion than function feels better here, with Hannibal’s warm hand on his shoulder.  Will glances at Hannibal out of the corner of his eye, takes in his soft cashmere sweater and peaceful face—peaceful because he’s dragged Will away from danger yet again.  The desire to express his thanks comes on too strong for Will to stop himself from making the situation uncomfortable

“Thank you,” Will says, suddenly.  Hannibal looks at him and he cringes slightly, under the scrutiny.  “I mean, for the drinks and the warmth and everything. I’ll just stay until the storm blows over I… I won’t infringe, I’m sorry,” and somewhere along the way, his appreciation deprecates into apology, as if this is somehow his fault.  He feels guilty, assured that Hannibal will see past his protests and discover what Will is afraid of—he may have never intended to leave at all.  But then Hannibal is turning him, making them face each other, carefully placing a hand on the side of Will’s face as he is so prone to doing.  And in that second, with his face lit by the fire, Will suddenly realizes that this is not like the other times.  They’re standing just a little closer.

“Stay, Will,” he says simply.  There’s something there, behind his words that Will understands.  He thinks of where they are now, locked inside, away from the prying glances of Jack Crawford and Alana Bloom, so concerned for his health. He wonders if they haven’t been walking closer to this over these past few weeks, their eye contact lasting longer, the lingering touches that Will can never bring himself to shrug away.

He wonders if Hannibal doesn’t need to think about Will wanting to go because he’d always intended for him to stay.

Will’s eyes betray him, or maybe they betray Hannibal because Will isn’t really sure if he’s feeding off of Hannibal’s mood or acting on his own shelved attraction.  His gaze fixes on Hannibal’s mouth and the thought crosses his mind that he looks incredibly warm.  Will feels his heart jump as the lips he’s staring at part and Will’s cheeks flush again, without the aid of the cold this time.  He knows, and doesn’t bother to think how he knows, that Hannibal won’t make a move in this situation.  Hannibal does nothing but guide Will towards his own choices.  And really, hasn’t he been dancing around decisions all night, moving to the door only to stay inside, giving in to compromises rather than doing what he knows he should?  Will doesn’t _want_ to be this indecisive, not about this, when Hannibal’s given him the perfect opportunity to make a move.

So, Will leans forward and catches his lips before they close, trembling once he realizes they are as warm as he’d imagined.  Hannibal tastes like the heat Will’s searching for, so far away from the mess swirling round outside.

_Such a mess when we’re apart, I’m such a mess._

The hand on his shoulder tightens, then pulls him forward.  Will chances a glance upward, sees Hannibal’s eyes are shut and shuts his own, letting the kiss linger just a moment longer.  Despite everything dancing on Will’s nerves, it feels good.  It feels right to just surrender to him like this, to stop the cycle he’s trapped in of trying to move somewhere only to get turned around, finding out he’s wrong and having to backtrack.  Hannibal is giving him an escape from all of that, giving him sanctuary in the warmth and generosity of his home.

They remain like that for awhile, mouths pressed together in an action that seems to innocent, but feels like a step in a much less virtuous direction. When Will pulls away, breathing heavily, he doesn’t move far.  He drops his head to rest at Hannibal’s shoulder, feeling Hannibal’s arms fold around him in a snug embrace.  Will’s eyes drift shut again, perfectly content not to think about what consequences his actions might have.  They’re far away from his worries now, blinded by the swirl of snow and deafened by the wind.  They’re stuck in this house together and Will reasons, trapped animals rarely have to behave reasonably.  Why should he begrudge them the possibility of behaving unreasonably?

Hannibal has always told Will, they are friends before he is Will’s psychiatrist.  Maybe this is his offer to be something else before they are friends, a gift masked by their usual dancing around each other.

They’re silent, listening only to the roar of the fireplace.  Will much prefers it to music, as he’s positive he and Hannibal do not have the same taste, but this background is one he’s happy to settle for.  He’s perfectly content, if a little high on endorphins.  Then Hannibal’s hand traces up Will’s spine and the man shudders in his grasp, feeling something low in his body stir.  There's just so much to feel now, but it overwhelms him in a much more pleasant way than Will's used to.  He barely refrains from pressing his hips forward.  Will feels purpose in them now, realizes he’s started something he doesn’t want to leave behind.  It’s the perfect time, they have an excuse, a clear alibi gifted to them in some backwards way by the terror reigning outside.  No one can say something, not when Will has perfect reason to be far away from all the trouble and red tape of the FBI.  He's frozen under the sudden abundance of possibility in this situation.

Unfortunately, Hannibal seems to read Will’s silence, his blushing face as regretful.  “Perhaps that was inappropriate.  We do not have to progress any further and you could take a guest room,” Hannibal offers, but his hand hasn’t stopped tracing patterns on Will’s back and Will is distraught at that notion.  He has to do something, show Hannibal he isn’t turning tail and running.

“Hannibal,” Will whispers, the name unfamiliar, but pleasant on his tongue.  “No... You feel…You’re so warm.”  He’s trying to say more and Hannibal must know that, but he’s out of practice.  Will wouldn’t even begin to know how he’s supposed to proposition someone like Hannibal and he’s positive it would come out wrong if he tried.  Luckily, Hannibal is as good at reading Will as Will is at reading everyone else.

“There’s also a fireplace in _my_ bedroom,” Hannibal informs him carefully and Will thinks his heart might burst out of his chest because, yes, that’s so much better.  “If you’re amiable to a little more heat.”

“I am,” Will says honestly, moving up to catch Hannibal’s lips again, but not before he whispers, “After all, it’s cold outside.”


End file.
